Believers in Blind Faith
by The Goliath Beetle
Summary: Belief is a powerful thing. Your reality is what you think it is. Lovino believes he isn't wanted, isn't needed. Antonio believes he's strong enough to stop cutting himself. While Lovino's views are set in stone, Antonio's are not. Somehow, they've got to find a middle ground. *Very mild Spamano. College AU. Warnings for self-harm. Two-shot.*
1. Liar, Liar

Believers in Blind Faith

* * *

**A/N: Trigger warnings for self-harm. **

**Yes, I'm working on **_**The Perfect Praline**_**, but in the mean time, this idea struck me and I really liked it!**

* * *

Antonio's not sure how a conversation about college toilets has turned into a tormented rant about world-hating and assholes. Tormented from Lovino's side, anyway. Antonio watches and listens and 'hmm's along with a combination of amusement and mild irritation. They're sitting under a large leafy tree on an unusually bright day, watching the other students walk about, exchange notes, kiss or just relax. Today is a good day. Antonio feels good about it. And right now, Lovino is sort of ruining that.

But Lovino's head rests against the bark, his legs stretched out and crossed, one over the other. His fingers trace lines over his sketchbook, where an unfinished drawing of a sparrow waits patiently for her artist to come back to her.

"The world isn't nearly as bad as you think it is," Antonio says earnestly, big green eyes blinking with concern, gentleness, love.

Lovino doesn't quite look at him. "I want to believe that. I really do."

"So then why don't you?"

Lovino shrugs. There's silence for a moment, and then Lovino says, "I see myself in that light, I guess. A tragic artist."

Antonio giggles. Lovino's face turns red. "That's so narcissistic," Antonio replies, managing to stifle his laughter before Lovino loses his temper.

"How the fuck is it narcissistic to be lonely?"

"It's narcissistic and dangerous, that's what it is. I mean, that kind of thinking… 'I am a tragic artist. That is all I am'. Dismissing your entire self in a movie trope. Sort of sad, don't you think? Plus, Lovi, there's a sort of…how do I put it…yeah, _martyrdom_ involved when you identify yourself as being lonely. Eight billion people on the planet. It shouldn't be so hard to befriend at least one of them!"

Lovino is glaring at him, golden eyes like neat whisky. "Martyrs don't want to die."

Antonio opens his mouth to say something. He really does get sort of irritated when Lovi goes on these self-depreciating rants. It happens all too often. Antonio's never sure if he's being self-righteous or just pouring his heart out. He doesn't mind the latter. Oh, he'd love to be Lovino's confidant. He knows it's not good for him, but he doesn't want Lovi to suffer on his own. Alone. As Lovi always claims he is.

So he just sighs loudly, plucks at some grass, and says, "All right."

A few more seconds pass, and when he looks back up at Lovino, he's startled to find that the other man hasn't stopped looking at him. Lovino appears rather puzzled about something. His eyes are dissecting Antonio in the same way as they do when Lovino's trying to work out the form and dimensions of a subject he's about to sketch. It's rather…unnerving. A nice sort of unnerving. But all the same, Antonio feels a cold jolt of anxiety slither down his chest.

He wonders if some day he'll die of a heart attack. He wonders if that some day is soon.

"What?" he asks Lovino, and his heart is pounding loudly. He feels a bit faint.

Lovino's gaze flickers away, towards the grass and the people and the college building. "Nothing."

And that's that.

* * *

Lovino tries. He really, honestly tries. But there's this voice in his head, telling him that he is simply not wanted. That they speak to him because they just have to. Feli has to be nice to him because they're related. Arthur, Alfred and Matthew just hang around him because they feel bad. Matthew only bothers because they've got the same classes. So when later, Alfred bounds up to him saying, "Yo, Lovi! We're going to get some burgers. Want to come?" Lovino just makes a face.

Even this. He can't stop doing this. He makes that face, that frown, that look of disgust. "Like hell I'd want to do that."

"Oh, come on," Matthew eggs, pulling lightly on Lovino's arm.

"Look, no—" Lovino yanks his arm back. "I have to work, okay?"

"Work on what?" Matthew looks genuinely confused. "Did they give us an assignment I'm not aware of?"

"Uh…no. I just—I had this idea and I—look, I'm just—"

"Whatever, dude." Alfred's grip is iron and stone, and he's basically dragging Lovino off to where Arthur is waiting by the gates. "Stop being such an introvert."

They don't want his company. Lovino knows this. That's what the bad voice in his head tells him. He always finds himself apologising—or wanting to apologise but not being able to—for stupid things. Like interrupting Matthew or insulting Arthur's cooking skills, even though everyone sort of does that. They don't want him around because he's got nothing to offer. He is only his art, nothing more, nothing less. And so, he's right when he tells Antonio that he feels like a tragic artist.

It's not narcissism. It's just…what he feels.

* * *

It's later that week. Saturday. His roommate Francis is out on a date. Gilbert's in the library, studying. And Antonio just sits there on the floor in his bedroom, back against the bed. And he feels.

He feels everything.

Right now, it's throat-clogging anxiety and a torrent of confused emotion. Happiness. Sadness. He feels so much. And so, it's routine, what he does. At least once a week. It's the only way he knows how to release.

There's a blade hidden in his cupboard. He runs that down his arm. Six times. Seven. Eight. The blood starts to dry even as it trickles down his skin. He usually cuts at the hips. After all, people notice scars on the arms. But the hips don't feel _nearly _as good, so sometimes he indulges himself.

Antonio just sits there, feeling comfortably blank. The anxiety is leaking out of his body in bright red drops. The blade is on the floor. And he watches himself bleed. Occasionally, he'll angle his arm in a certain way to make sure it doesn't stain the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, or drip onto the rug.

He's done a lot of reading about self-harm. About the way it works. Anyone who does it would be slightly curious, right? He knows that his brain is getting high on endorphins right now. That the wispy, dreamy, floaty feeling is from a chemical reaction. That it's very addictive. The pain is starting to hit him, finally. He doesn't like this pain. Antonio prefers the feeling of actually cutting. He's read that the brain actually numbs the body during the actual act of self-harm. So it just feels like he's scraping himself.

The sting hits him now. It reminds him of Lovino's constant world-hating. It's just as annoying and pointless.

But it turns out to be a bad day to cut at the arm.

He hates, hates, hates having to hurry through the afterglow. He's done it in college bathrooms in between classes, and those are the worst. There are times where he's had to quickly cut and then patch himself up before Gilbert or Francis arrive. But he'd been expecting no interruptions tonight.

So it makes him panic just a little when he hears a knock at the door of the dorm room. "Bastard, open up. I need to return your books."

Oh, Lovino. The king of bad timing.

Antonio is already on his feet before Lovino has finished his sentence. He puts the blade back where it belongs, in the depths of his cupboard. Then he's dashing to the bathroom to wash off the blood staining his arm. Dammit, his wounds haven't clotted yet! The water makes the sting worse. He's still bleeding.

Lovino's knocking on the door again, and Antonio's phone has started receiving text messages from him. "Antonio, I swear to god, open the fucking door."

"Just a minute, Lovi!" Antonio's voice is unnaturally high. "I'm just—squaring up, you know." He's pressed cotton to his arm, but there's no time to tie a bandage or put a band-aid, so he's hoping that the blood will make the cotton stick in place. He rolls his sleeves down, shifts the padding over his wounds properly. He gives his room one quick once-over. Okay. No obvious signs.

When Antonio opens the door, Lovino is tapping his foot impatiently. "Since when do you square up your dorm for me?" And he pushes past Antonio. "You call this squaring up?"

"That's Gilbert's mess," Antonio defends weakly, although that isn't true. Gilbert hates messes. The half-eaten packet of potato crisps and the upturned bag is all Antonio. He'd been too bored to clean up. Anyway, he hadn't been expecting company tonight. That's what he keeps telling himself. Lovino, go away. Please go away. Don't disturb my high.

Lovino dumps a couple of slim books on the sofa. One of them is that Tennessee Williams play, _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_. Lovino says, "I'm in two minds about the ending, actually."

"Why's that?"

"Well, Maggie lies and says she's pregnant, even though Brick doesn't want to sleep with her. And then in the end…she sort of forces him?"

"To make the lie come true, yes."

"Isn't that like rape or something?"

Antonio shrugs. He really, really, really does not care right now. "I guess so."

"I liked Brick, though. Bastard alcoholic. Avoiding his problems. Letting himself fall apart. Gracefully tragic."

"Yeah, I thought you'd like him." Antonio watches Lovino makes his way over to the kitchenette, opening and shutting drawers, looking for something to eat.

"How's that paper coming along?"

"Huh?"

Lovino glances up, frowning. "That paper you kept whining about having to write. On Communism in England or something."

Right. That paper. That nine-thousand word thing due in three days. That paper he's not nearly done with. Despite the calm and the high, another jolt of anxiety pierces his chest. He wants to cut again. So he presses his sleeve above the wound deeply. The pain punishes him. And it steadies his breathing.

"It's coming along fine," Antonio replies, as simply and as dismissively as he can.

"Well, that's—Antonio, what the fuck!" Lovino's eyes have become wide like golden moons, and Antonio doesn't quite register the horror on his face until he looks down at his arm and sees the blood.

Crap. The cotton padding had shifted when he'd pressed on the cuts. Now he's bleeding through his sleeve. Crap, crap, crap. Lovino's already run up to him. Antonio can't fight off the panic long enough to back away. Besides, Lovino's really fast and forceful when he wants to be. He snatches Antonio's arm and pulls the sleeve up.

At the sight of eight still-bleeding cuts, Lovino doesn't cuss or scream or hit him. He just stares at them very quietly before looking up at Antonio with the saddest eyes. "Antonio, what the fuck?" and his voice is as gentle as a lullaby.

Antonio doesn't know what to say. So he just tells Lovino the truth.

He doesn't know how he manages to sound so calm, so nonchalant.

"I'm sorry," he says simply. "I was just feeling very red."

* * *

"Why?"

"I'm trying to stop. I really am."

"_Why_, Antonio?"

Antonio just shrugs. "It's the only way I know how to feel."

Lovino is sitting beside him on the couch. Antonio's arm is bandaged. They're drinking coffee. Antonio feels like crying, but since he's already cut, he can't. It's usually either one or the other. It's like his eyes don't know how to shed water.

He wants to be hugged right now. But instead, he inches away from Lovino, not toward him.

"The only way you know how to feel?" Lovino asks in a small voice, looking at him with the same heaviness as before.

"Yeah, it's like…" Antonio struggles for words. He's feeling oddly honest. Daring, even. He has half a mind to point out all the other scars on his arms. They're faint white lines, so nobody would notice them unless they were looking. "It's like a…cleanse, I guess. My weekly cleanse. Once I've cut the emotion out of me, I am ready to face the new week. You see?"

"Dammit," Lovino whispers quietly, averting his watery eyes.

"I can't do that," Antonio says suddenly, pointing at Lovino's face. "Cry. I can't do that. It takes a lot of effort."

Lovino wipes his face. "You have to stop."

"I'm trying." Antonio is honest when he says that. He's always trying to stop. Every time is the last time.

"Throw the blades away."

"All right."

Lovino does it for him. Antonio tells him where they are, and Lovino fishes them out—all four of them—wraps them up in tissue and dumps them in the bin. "You have to stop, okay? It's not…it's not…right."

"I'm doing my best. You have to believe me."

Lovino sniffs before pulling Antonio into a warm, safe hug. "I do believe you." His lips ghost over Antonio's cheek. It happens so quickly that Antonio almost thinks he's imagined it. "Next time you're feeling…red," Lovino says quietly, "Just call me."

"All right. I promise I will."

"Good."

* * *

When it's late, when he's lying in bed, Lovino can't think. Some people stay awake because their minds are always at work. With Lovino, it's the other way round. He just feels very quiet. Antonio has often called him passionate, angry, even. But at three in the morning when the moon is setting and the clouds hang over the sky like an unanswered question, Lovino's thoughts flit away. And he's left like that. Quiet, calm.

It's in these moments that he feels in colour.

If Antonio feels red, Lovino feels green.

He's really happy in these moments. The content, silent kind of happy. The sort that is relaxing. It's in these moments that he wants to sketch sparrows and oceans and children laughing. He can almost hear the waves, the flutter of wings, the high giggles.

Really, it's the daytime that's the problem. Daylight means people. And people make the voice in his head scream. They don't like you. They don't want you. You pathetic, weak, loser.

Lovino wishes, wishes so hard that they would just _understand_. That he could explain why he felt so fucking _tired _with life at only the age of twenty. That things have happened to him, that experiences have weathered him. And that he's so young and there's so much left to live, and there will only be _more_. More of the same pain. Rejection, rejection, rejection. Parents. Grandparents. Brother. Schoolmates. Angry, bad-mouthed freak of nature.

He tells himself that college is different. That for the first time ever, there are people apart from Feli who seem to want to be around him. He cares for Alfred and Matthew and Arthur. And oh god, oh god, he cares for Antonio. He's never cared so much for another person in his life before. But that voice tells him that they don't want him, they've never wanted him, that Antonio would be much happier without him, that his friends—can he call them friends?—are just pretending because they're nice, polite people.

And so it's during the day time that he ends up painting these gory, dark, evil images about monsters or murders or just—well, anything, anything cruel and sad—because that's the only way _he _knows how to feel. And it's the only thing he knows how to feel, too. Pain.

Although perhaps his pain doesn't matter half as much because at least he's not doing it to himself physically. Lovino will invalidate his own emotion because he isn't feeling it in a more unhealthy way. He wishes he was sick, like Antonio. Maybe then he'd feel more justified in his sadness.

Antonio.

He'd met Antonio in the library at the start of first year. Lovino had wanted something about Renaissance Art and had stumbled into the 20th Century History section, where Antonio had been flipping through a thick volume about the theory of fascism or something. They'd had a short conversation about where the Art books were. And after that Antonio had ambushed him during lunch and forced himself down at Lovino's lonely table. They'd been friends ever since.

Antonio's major is twentieth century history, which is a rarity in itself. But Lovino is studying art, so really, that was the first real conversation they'd had. _We'll both end up starving and poor on the streets in a year, I bet_, Antonio had said. And Lovino had smirked, saying, _We can always join the mafia if that happens. With our combined majors, we wouldn't need to shoot people to kill them. We could just bore them to death. _

As dawn arrives, Lovino feels the voice waking up. It's going to be a really difficult day. Because Antonio isn't perfect and happy and beautiful anymore. He's just as damaged—if not more—than Lovino is. And something tells him that it's all Lovino's fault.

How? Why? He tries to ask himself.

It doesn't matter, the voice replies. It's always your fucking fault.

* * *

_I need to stop. I have to stop. I am stronger than this. _And every time is the absolute last time. Never again. These are the last few scars I will receive. I believe in myself. I believe in my own resilience. That's what Antonio always, always, always tells himself in the morning after. In the shower, he rubs some dried blood off his skin. Last night's bandages are on the bathroom floor.

He's feeling…empty.

And tired.

And sad.

But mostly just…empty.

It's just as bad as feeling too much. This time he's sure. No more cutting. He's done with that.

Antonio tries to sit for his classes, but his heart isn't in it. He's not kind enough to himself. He's always forcing himself to do things he doesn't want to do, to get into conversations he doesn't enjoy, to go to places he doesn't like. So this time he steps out of class as soon as he hears the bell, and quietly walks out of the college. He needs to get the hell out of here.

Just…out. Somewhere. Where he doesn't have to think. Or feel.

Although he'd like to feel something right now. Anything. Even anxiety. Antonio wants to scream. But he's also too tired. The sun is burning down on his neck and he just walks. He walks out of college and down the road and he walks around the neighbourhood and then around the city. His feet hurt and his back hurts and his bag feels heavy on his shoulders. He wants to roll up his sleeves but he's too scared to. He wants to erase the memory of Lovino and last night, but it plays on his mind over and over again. He wants to feel but his emotions have shut down on him.

Antonio _wants_. He _wants_ so badly.

He drags himself into a Starbucks at three in the afternoon and asks for a hot chocolate. Nobody from college is here. So he rolls his sleeves up. Fuck it if the people around him notice the wounds. Fuck it. Fuck them. Who cares?

* * *

_Lovino: I didn't see you at all today. Are you all right?_

**Antonio: Fine :) I just wanted some air.**

**Antonio: I'll be back soon.**

_Lovino: Where are you?_

**Antonio: At a Starbucks, although I'm not sure about the locality.**

**Antonio: I'm going to the bridge later tonight. **

**Antonio: Would you like to come?**

_Lovino: I have an assignment to finish._

_Lovino: Wouldn't you rather be alone, though?_

_Lovino: After last night…_

**Antonio: I don't care about last night. Don't worry about it. I don't mind you knowing. Just don't tell anyone.**

_Lovino: Are you sure you're all right?_

_Lovino: Are you feeling "red" again?_

**Antonio: Not red. Just grey.**

_Lovino: What does that mean?_

**Antonio: Sometimes I feel too much. Other times, I feel too little.**

**Antonio: And when I feel too little, I feel daring.**

**Antonio: And when I feel daring, I feel dangerous.**

**Antonio: And when I feel dangerous, I end up doing something stupid.**

_Lovino: …Something stupid?_

**Antonio: Like waiting for the very last second to jump away from an oncoming car.**

**Antonio: Like leaning too far out of a balcony.**

**Antonio: Like throwing myself into the sea.**

_Lovino: Do you do it to kill yourself?_

**Antonio: Lovi, I don't want to die. I love to live. There's nothing in the world I love more than life.**

**Antonio: I don't do it do die. I do it to feel.**

_Lovino: I think I'd better come with you to the bridge._

**Antonio: That would be preferable, yes.**

_Lovino: All right. I'll meet you there at 7?_

**Antonio: Okay.**

* * *

The bridge is a quiet structure not too far from college. It's actually rather featureless, an ugly thing resting over a calm stream. Nobody really comes out here. So that's usually where Lovino and Antonio sit, talk and drink. Although Lovino hasn't bought any wine this time. Antonio shows up shortly after he does, his backpack over his shoulder, looking like the day has wrung him out. They stand there quietly, Antonio peering into the black water.

"How was your day?" Lovino asks him gently.

"Long. How was yours?"

"Long."

"Why?"

Lovino shrugs. "It's always long."

"Do you really see yourself as a tragic artist?"

Lovino nods.

"You're so much more than that, Lovi."

"I try to believe that, Antonio." Lovino feels the tears drip down his cheeks again. He's always crying. How many times has he locked himself up in bathrooms in between classes and just sobbed and sobbed and sobbed? How many nights does he spend locked inside his room, crying and painting and painting and crying. There's so much inside him just desperate to come out. He's just not in _control_. "I want to believe that I matter. That I'm wanted. I try, I promise I try."

"If you want to believe it, all you have to do is _believe it_," Antonio smiles at him, gentle and soft and tender and safe.

"It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is. We are what we believe."

"I know. But I…I'm so _tired_, Antonio. I'm so _tired _now." Just so beaten down. Just so defeated.

Antonio's gaze drifts to the horizon. "I'm happy," he states simply. "Not today. Today is not a good day. But on good days, I'm very happy. Sometimes too happy. And even too much happiness stresses me out. Do you remember that time we went to the beach, just the two of us? And I slipped on the rocks and twisted my ankle?"

"Yeah?"

"And you took care of me and kissed my cheek?"

Lovino blushes very deeply and looked away. "It was an accident."

Antonio laughs. "I was so happy that day. You have no idea. I was over the moon. But by the time we got back, I was also very, very stressed out. I was so happy, so happy, Lovino. I had no idea what to _do _with so much emotion. So when I got back home, I cut and cut and cut and cut until I felt…calm. And then I told Francis and Gilbert about our moment on the beach and they teased me and I was happy again! And this time, it was manageable happiness!"

"You cut yourself because of me?" Lovino is just staring at Antonio. "Oh god. I'm so sorry. Oh my god, Antonio, I—"

"Not because of you." Antonio has placed both hands on Lovino's shoulders. "Because of _me_. Because I don't know how to deal with emotion."

"It was my fault." Lovino takes a step away. It's always his fucking fault.

"It's not. It's not. It's mine. It's my problem and you have nothing to do with it. I've cut because of Gilbert and Francis, too. I've cut because of class and I've cut for no reason at all. It's just something I do, okay?"

Lovino has wiped his eyes and straightened up just enough to tilt his head at Antonio. His self-hate has simmered down for a moment, replaced with a curious observation. "This is the first time I've ever seen you be so candid."

Antonio's green eyed frown takes him by surprise. It's like Antonio hadn't known what he does when he has conversations with people. "Pardon me?"

"You…" Lovino begins softly. "You do this thing where even though you have something to say, you hold back. You're always holding back. Like that other day, when we were sitting under the tree? I could tell you wanted to say something. But you didn't. And you're always doing that. This is the first time I've ever seen you be so…well, candid, yeah. And about something so personal, too."

"Oh," Antonio says quietly, looking to his feet. "I don't see the point of getting in an argument, that's all. Conflict upsets me."

"So you hold back when you're with people," he sums up, "And you cut when you're alone." Lovino swallows. "Why did you cut yourself last night?"

"Because I felt red."

"What does red feel like?"

"Love and hate, fear and confidence, joy and sadness. Red is every emotion all at once."

"Wouldn't it help if you expressed that out loud instead of hurting yourself?"

Antonio's gaze drifts. "Sometimes, there's no point. No matter how much I want to tell someone something, they'd never believe me."

"Oh come on."

Antonio doesn't look at him. "I love you. Do you believe me when I say that, Lovino? I love _you_. Do you believe me? Do you?"

Lovino's eyes fill with tears again. He'd been afraid of this. "I can't."

It's not that Lovino has never been loved before. It's just that he doesn't feel like he deserves it. Lovino isn't even sure what that _means_. Like there's some sort of checklist for love. Or like it's similar to a college application process, where you have to write a statement of purpose, show your grades and give an interview.

They stand on the bridge in the night, and say nothing for many hours. Finally, Antonio says, "I feel red." And Lovino can see the way his powerful muscles are taut and his face is pale and his breathing is faster. "I feel blood red."

"What are you feeling? Antonio, describe it for me. What are you feeling? And why?"

"I feel…scared."

"Of what?"

"Of you rejecting me. And I feel angry. Angry for being so open. I feel like I've burdened you, and I should have just shut up. And I'm also terrified you're going to think I'm weak. I feel stressed out because I'm not done with that paper I need to write. And I'm upset because I've felt absolutely _nothing _all day, and now I'm feeling everything all at once."

Lovino pulls Antonio into a fierce hug. He's protecting Antonio. They stand like that for what seems like ages. Softly, words whispered into Lovino's ear.

"Every time I cut, I believe that I'll be stronger next time. That I won't do it again. And then I always, always let myself down."

So it's like this, Lovino thinks mathematically. Lovino believes he doesn't deserve love, and Antonio believes he can stop cutting.

And deep down, Lovino knows that both of those things are _lies_.

* * *

**A/N: There's one more chapter, which I will upload soon :) Thanks for reading. Please review! **


	2. Blind Believer

**A/N: The second chapter, the final chapter, and it's much shorter than the first one :'D **

**To be honest, I regretted writing this fic because there was no easy ending, and I wasn't exactly sure **_**how **_**I was going to put across what I was trying to say. This second chapter was pretty difficult. Anyway, I hope it's a satisfactory ending.**

* * *

It's a week later during lunch. Antonio hasn't bothered with wearing full sleeves. It's hot. He can't care less, honestly. The scars are deeper, very easily noticeable. But nobody has called him out on it, so it's fine. At least, nobody yet. The thing is, when he wants to be, Gilbert is both observant and direct. So when he stops in mid-sentence, his jaw hanging open with shock, he doesn't even have to say anything for Antonio to realise that yes, he's noticed.

But Gilbert still says, "Toni, what is that on your arm?" in the slow, cautious, treading-on-thin-ice kind of way.

Francis's gaze turns rapidly between Gilbert and Antonio, before his blue eyes also rest on those eight thin lines over Antonio's skin. "Oh my god."

Well, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Antonio cannot, will not look away. If he shows submission, he's over and done with. No. He makes a show of touching his scars, ignoring the slight twinge of residual pain from them, before giving his two best friends a calm, confident smile. "I know what you're thinking. These are very, very old."

Gilbert and Francis blink. Francis is far more tactful. He scoots his chair over to Antonio, his gaze firm and tender. "You used to self-harm?"

"Yeah, you know." Antonio waves his hands about like it's no big deal. "Teenage drama is just. You know. Teenage drama." Antonio's got a storehouse of lies to dip into. He's very good at it. So he picks one off the top of his head and goes on, "I did this when I was freaking out over being gay. Kept at it for, like, a couple of months. But then eventually I got a grip and stopped."

Gilbert and Francis are both looking at him in the same damn way. Finally, Gilbert says, "And you've…definitely stopped?" He is studying chemistry, and is now looking at Antonio like Antonio is a chemical reaction he can't quite understand. Gilbert looks…suspicious, actually. "Because I didn't see those scars a few weeks ago."

Goddammit. Antonio _hates _that Gilbert is so smart and observant. Francis's eyes widen and he stares at Antonio's arm. "Gil's right. I don't think I've seen these on you before."

Fine, then. Time for plan number 2.

"Okay. I see that you two have no faith in me when I'm trying to tell you something personal. So, you know, fuck you. I don't care." He makes a move for his tray of food and stands. "Let me know when you two are done being dicks."

"No, no, Toni, wait!" Francis calls, reaching out for his elbow and pulling him back. "Sit down. Don't get so worked up. We're sorry." He shoots Gilbert a look of warning. "We're sorry, aren't we, Gilbert?"

"Yes," Gilbert says automatically, although he's giving Antonio this long, thoughtful look that says otherwise.

Antonio sighs. His heart is calming down. He sits, giving both of them a practiced look of wariness. "It was a difficult time for me. I'm sorry if I overreacted, I just…well, Gilbert, you honestly scared me. I didn't plan on telling. I mean, it's so embarrassing and pathetic and—whatever, it's in the past. I'm all fine now." And he gives them a salesman smile of assurance and security. They believe him. Well, they seem to, anyway.

Francis puts his hand on Antonio's. "If you ever feel that way again. _Ever_. You know we're always here for you."

Antonio chuckles. "I really appreciate the thought, Francis. But really, I'm fine now."

It's when he's putting his tray away that it suddenly strikes him how _good_ he's feeling. Not stressed-out-happy but I-feel-strong happy, which comes by so rarely that he's almost deemed himself incapable of it. Like while trying to convince Gilbert and Francis that he's fine, he's convinced himself, too.

He lets the feeling be, for now. He lets himself experience it. Because he knows it's going to crash and he'll be cutting by the end of the week.

"I have to resist," he tells himself firmly in the bathroom mirror.

But the more he says it, the less confident he feels.

* * *

Lovino is sick. Maybe it's a dust allergy or something. Maybe it's just bad luck. But he's got a headache and can't stop coughing. Feli sits by his bed and hands him a cup of tomato soup, although Lovino doesn't really want to drink it. Feli's tinkling chuckle shoots inside Lovino's brain, each sound like a piece of broken glass.

"How do you manage this, Lovi?" Feli giggles, rubbing his brother's back as Lovino coughs. It's close to evening, and Feli is all dressed up for a date. He and Ludwig are only going to get some ice cream—it's a school night after all—but still, Feli's in his best shirt.

Lovino is ignoring Antonio's concerned text messages. He'll be fine by this time tomorrow, there's no need for everyone to get so damn worried. He's not dying, for pity's sake. Lovino takes the soup from Feli's hands and takes a few grateful sips. Beside him, Feli has started talking about Kiku's anime designs and how cool they are, and by the time Lovino is halfway through the cup of soup, his stomach reacts.

And in a flash, he's out of bed and retching in the commode, with Feli shrieking worriedly beside him.

When he finally settles, washes his mouth and is directed back to bed, Feli takes out his phone and sends a hurried text. "I'm telling Ludwig I can't come," he declares, "You're too sick, I don't want you to be alone."

God, no. Lovino can't stand the guilt.

"No, Feli, it's fine. Go have fun. You're overreacting."

Feliciano lowers his phone and regards Lovino with a cool, firm golden-eyed stare. "There's no way I can go out and not worry about you here alone. No, Lovi, I want to look after you. You're my brother and I love you."

No, you don't.

Maybe you do love me, but I don't matter as much.

I don't matter at all.

I don't deserve to matter.

"You need to shut it up," Feli says coldly, but his glare is not directed toward _Lovino_, but toward something _inside _him. "That bad voice in your head. You need to make it go away."

"What are you—"

"Lovi, please. I know how you see yourself. I can hear you cry yourself to sleep sometimes. You say things sometimes, things that make me wonder about just _how much _you hate yourself. And I don't know what it would take for you to see that _we love you_. And if there's a bad voice inside your head, Lovi, you need to counter it with a good voice."

Lovino's throat is dry. How does Feli know? Feli isn't supposed to know. This is Lovino's problem, Lovino's alone. "Good voice?" he whispers.

"Yes. Everyone feels insecure now and then." Feli's eyes drift to the window. "It's natural. But every time the bad voice in my head tells me that I won't make it, there is a good voice that shouts the bad voice down. The good voice tells me that I will! That it'll be all right! And eventually, things are okay again." Feliciano smiles. "That good voice in my head, Lovi? It sounds like _you._"

Lovino is coughing and crying. He feels so fucking vulnerable as he allows his brother to hug him. Feli doesn't understand. After their parents had that divorce, after the brothers were separated, Lovino's mother would _scream _at Lovino. Never hit him, but scream. Then when their grandfather discovered the messy situation and took both boys away from their respective parents, Feli became the favourite child. Over and over again. In school and at home. All the time. Feeding the badness, the insecurity. What good voice? Lovino doesn't know what that would even sound like.

"How can I trust a good voice when I can't even believe it?" Lovino asks softly.

"Pretend to believe it," Feli says seriously. "And then eventually one day, you will. Fake it till you make it. That's what they say."

* * *

No. No. No. Calm down. Please calm down. It's all right. You're all right. Everything will be—

Antonio needs a blade and he needs it now because he's feeling blood red blood red blood red but Lovi has thrown them all away so Antonio breaks open a new shaving razor with a thumb tack drops his jeans and cuts his hips until his mind is quiet and he's expressed everything that he's feeling and he's okay now and it's all very very okay.

**Antonio: Lovi, I'm sorry. I felt red again and I cut.**

_Lovino: Oh god. _

**Antonio: This will be the last time. I promise.**

_Lovino: Do you really believe that, or do you tell yourself that to make yourself feel better?_

_Lovino: Are you there?_

_Lovino: Hello?_

The fact is Antonio believes it when he says it. He'll believe anything about himself after he's cut. That's when his mind is clear and he can think about highly complex things in systematic ways. He believes he is stronger than this. And then each time, each and every single time, he breaks.

These days, he isn't sure anymore. He's not sure what to believe. But Antonio just feels weaker and weaker. He doesn't see the point of resisting anymore.

Francis walks in on him sitting with his back against his bed. Thankfully, Antonio has dressed his wounds, is wearing his pants, and has put the blade away. But Francis knows something is wrong. Antonio's sort of dazed. And…sad, really. He feels like such a failure.

"Do you ever feel sort of…" Antonio's voice trails away as he rests his head on Francis's shoulder. They're both sitting on the floor. "Sort of lost…" Antonio finally completes. "Trapped, lost…without hope?"

"Of course," Francis replies quietly, stroking Antonio's hair.

"What do you do?"

Francis gives out a very long, sad sigh. "You know when Jeanne broke up with me?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how I basically stopped functioning?"

Antonio cringes despite his high. That hadn't been a good time for any of them. He'd never seen Francis so distraught, so broken.

"Yeah…" Antonio says, his voice barely audible.

"And I kept seeing Jeanne with her new boyfriend…it was horrible. But I didn't want to show her how torn up I was. It wasn't her fault she fell for him, it wasn't her fault I cheated on her."

"Yeah…"

"Anyway, I pretended that everything was fine. I told myself I was already over her." Francis paused for a moment. "And eventually I got over her."

"You lied to yourself." Antonio lifts his head from where it rests and blinks tiredly at the other man.

Francis's smile is small and wry. "That's one way of looking at it, yes." And then in a way that is so beautifully, characteristically Francis, he says, "Antonio…did you cut yourself?" He's so perceptive, Antonio shouldn't even be surprised at the question.

He stares at Francis, at the moment too tired to care about hiding this side of him. But then somewhere he registers that maybe he ought to be lying, and so he says, "Don't be ridiculous. I told you, I'm past that stage. I'm just…exhausted, that's all."

The other man's eyelashes flutter as his gaze slides away. "I see. My mistake. I'm sorry."

Antonio knows that Francis doesn't believe him.

But what if it _were _true, though? What if one day he can tell his friends he used to self-harm, but now he's completely over it? That conversation won't be very heavy, would it? In fact, it would feel like a relief.

* * *

How exactly does one lie to oneself and believe it? It's like a child closing his eyes, holding his breath, puffing his cheeks and thinking, _I want to have superpowers, I want to have superpowers, I want to have superpowers_, as though just that very dream would give him the ability to fly. Or perhaps it should be something like, _I HAVE superpowers._ In which case, why wasn't the child flying already?

You're making an ass of yourself.

Stop.

Back away.

They're going to laugh at you.

_Shut the fuck up. I'm going to ask them if they want to go to this new restaurant with me, and they're going to say yes, because anyone should fucking JUMP at the chance to spend time with me. _

_I matter. _

_I am amazing._

_They want to spend time with me._

It's not true and you know it.

They hate you.

They hate you so much.

_They love me. They're my friends. I am not a burden, I am a privilege. _

You keep telling yourself that.

_Fine. I will. _

_Not a burden, but a privilege. That's the truth._

Uh-huh.

_I matter._

"Hey, bastards. There's this new Italian place nearby. They've got a happy hour. We should go." Lovino crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. Alfred, Arthur and Matthew are regarding him with collective expressions of disbelief.

"Dude, did you just voluntarily ask to hang out?" Alfred questions after a short, stunned silence.

Shit. Shit. I told you, you're making an ASS of yourself.

_No. It's all right. I'm telling you, it's all right. Just answer the question._

"Yes," Lovino drawls. "You should be thanking your luck."

_That's right. They SHOULD be thanking their luck, because hanging out with you is amazing. A pleasure. A privilege._

"I'm up for it," Matthew says, already throwing his sketchbook into his bag. "Where is this place?"

"I'll come too," Alfred adds. "Anything to get the hell away from Arthur's cooking."

"Hey! I'll have you know that scones are incredible." Arthur gives Alfred a half-hearted glare, but then his gaze slides back to Lovino. "But who can pass up a happy hour?"

_It worked._

_It worked._

_It worked._

_They like you._

They pity you.

_THEY. LIKE. YOU. _

_And that is the truth of the matter._

* * *

The good voice, Lovino notes absently as he's smiling slightly at some crazy story Alfred's narrating, has Feliciano's gentility and Antonio's accent. It's in-between. It feels nice.

It's a lie, it's a soft cushion of a lie, but it still feels nice. All Lovino needs to do is to muster it. To continue to produce it.

Positivity grows where positivity is. So if he wants to keep the good voice happy, if he wants to give it strength, all he needs to do is laugh along to all the nonsense his—_friends_, the voice tells him—are saying.

Lovino is feeling wanted, at least for now.

* * *

I need to cut, I need to cut, I need to—

_Why?_

Because I'm feeling—

_Red?_

Yes.

_What does red feel like today?_

Panic. Fear. Failure. God, I don't know, I don't know, I just need to cut so badly right now.

_What are you afraid of, Antonio?_

I'm afraid of…

Of…

Of fighting.

_So are lots of people. But the fear before the fight is what makes the fight matter all the more. Courage. That's not the absence of fear but the strength to overcome it. Of course you're afraid to fight your self-harm urge. Who wouldn't be?_

_But it's okay. _

_I promise, it's okay._

_Now why don't you go sit with Gilbert and Francis over there? They seem to be having lots of fun, teasing Ludwig. That sounds nice, doesn't it?_

What if I break and cut myself?

_You won't cut yourself, because you're already over that stage. You've already won this battle._

Right.

I have already won.

"Gilbert! Francis! Stop bugging Ludwig. Let's go watch a movie."

* * *

What exactly is the difference between a liar and a believer? Antonio doesn't know. All he understands is that he lies. He lies and he tells himself he's all right, he _forces _himself to believe he is all right, and eventually—like Maggie in that Tennessee Williams play Lovino had borrowed a few months ago—the lie becomes true. At least for a fraction of a moment.

And what exactly is a moment? Antonio has heard of short ones, lasting less than a second. But the books also talk about long ones. Long moments that can span several minutes, in fact. There's an emotional element to these things. And the trick is to stretch out that _moment of strength _for as long as he can. To hold it in his hands, protect it and nurture it for when he feels like he's going to break.

Lovino is the same. That's the thing. They lie to themselves. Lovino tells himself that he isn't wanted. Antonio tells himself that he can resist. These claims are both completely false.

But they also _lie _to themselves. Lovino tells himself that he matters, even though he doesn't entirely believe it. Antonio tells himself that he has already recovered, even though that can't be further from the truth.

It's the quality of the lie, Antonio supposes. And the blind faith that it takes to believe something that they don't see as the truth. But Antonio isn't sure what the truth _is _anymore. All he knows is that they are both liars, believers, and painfully human.

Perhaps that is the only truth there is to it all.

* * *

**A/N: In some ways, I feel like this chapter is rushed. But honestly, I think this encapsulates the essence of what I had to say. What do you think? I'm not sure if I even like this fic, to be honest. But it is what it is, and despite my mixed feelings, I am glad I wrote it.**

**I'm sorry this didn't turn out to be as romantic as I'd originally planned. But as I wrote, it just didn't seem to fit. It seemed almost...disrespectful, really. I don't know, it's hard to explain. Haha, you can probably tell how conflicted I am about this weird fic. **

**Thank you for reading this strange little non-story. Please review. **


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